


amidst this bitterness

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: Sev's Commission Run 2019 [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Background Winterhawk, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Tony’s always been fascinated by soulmarks. Like, what the fuck? There’s science that can see the soulmarks working in someone’s brain, chemical responses and nerve actions they can trace, but in the end no one really knows how it works, which is fascinating. He considers, for the four-hundredth time, writing a set of academic papers on what happens when your soulmate leaves you. Taking his own blood samples, monitoring his own brain, mathematically inscribing the pain he feels in his heart every time his left arm burns at him. It’s a field not many have looked into; he’s checked.Steve and Tony, post-Civil War, and their soulmarks.





	amidst this bitterness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RainDriesOut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainDriesOut/gifts).



> so once again a commission _ran the fuck away with me_ , so here i am with a whole handful of feels about Steve and Tony. If you haven't read the first one, it's still self-explanatory, but go read it anyway, because I'm terrible and love comments. Thanks @ feathers for giving it a look over, _potato says thank you._

The thing is, Steve has read so many soulmate books - he had to, once he learnt that the nearly consistent burning he’d been getting from his mark means his soulmate is nearby, since he learnt that he may not have frozen every chance he had at finding his soulmate when he crashed that plane - but they always talk about finding your soulmate, about how to listen to your mark, how to let it guide you, and how to use it to learn what your soulmate’s feeling: how to strengthen the bond.

He hasn’t found a single soulmate book that talks about what to do when you leave your soulmate. 

It’s implied, really, in all of the books that he’s read; it seems obvious that once you find the soulmate, you’re done. That there’s no option of leaving because the soul bond is so strong it just doesn’t allow that to happen. 

There might be books on it. There probably are, Steve thinks, because there are books on _everything_ and when he said he wanted to learn more about soulmarks in this modern time JARVIS had probably just ordered him the most popular ones, not the ones that deal with uncommon, unlikely intricacies like fighting to injure your soulmate and then running away from them.

Steve thinks about JARVIS having faith in him, even then, even though JARVIS is a program and is no more: and it makes him want to weep, except that he’s so fucking goddamn tired.

He’s tired because Bucky’s back on ice again. He’s tired because he had to break his good friends out of the worst prison he’s ever seen. He’s sorry because he has to look at Wanda, at Clint and Scott, at Sam, at Natasha when she’s here, and he’s tired because everything is a hundred times more emotional than it should be. And he’s tired because he can’t sleep, because every night when he gets in bed he can still feel everything through his soulmark: all of the rage, the hurt, the sharp disappointment like a wound, the deeper and slower pain of distrust and betrayal underneath all of that. And in the background, clamoring like pots and pans, metal on metal, the slow flow where Tony still, irrevocably, inevitably, still loves him.

Steve knows that feeling all too well. 

———

It isn’t like Steve expected a soulmate. Back when he was a kid, it was just this much too close to a joke for he and Buck to talk about it, really: the fact that Steve had a sun right over his chest, intricately drawn unlike Bucky’s bold splash of ink - like Steve had drawn it himself, almost - and he knew they both thought it meant someone would come along to take care of Stevie, to be his sun, to care for his stupid weak heart and everything that came with it.

Then he’d killed himself with a plane crash and ice, and his last thought that wasn’t Peg or Buck was a simple _I’m sorry_ to his soulmate, and that was that.

But he’d awoken in a strange world, where they had decades-worth of research on soulmarks, and he’d tried to suppress the sudden hope that he maybe hadn’t died on his soulmate after all. It was barely worth thinking about, with aliens and gods and destruction and a threat to the world he still loved, even seventy-some years later. It wasn’t a priority, it was just a small burn.

A burn which had ignited once the Battle of New York was over and he’d finally, in slow increments, met the real Tony Stark: the one that hid his face behind metal, behind performances, behind expectations, so no one could see the things flashing behind his eyes. The one who played roles so well he might have just been an actor, false-facing anything he wanted to meet expectations. The Tony buried underneath, that only strong emotions could really bring out: anger, joy, confrontation, the intricacy of an engineering puzzle. It was surprising to Steve that the real Tony didn’t bother showing up for anything less than that — until he watched, and listened, and realized that Tony was so many things to so many people he rarely just got to be the true uneventful version of himself.

He realized that at the same time he realized what his soulmark was telling him, and Steve had been up all night that night, too, nearly _flattened_ by that and all that it meant.

Then, in the early hours of the morning, in the dark of the night, on the floor of his room in Stark Tower, Steve had realized the symbolism. Their marks were about each other. His, an intricately-patterned sun in the middle of his chest, has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Tony, who’s an incandescent light in the darkness with his own weakness built into his body. And Tony’s mark makes more sense: a star, a series of stars within complicated concentric circles, on his left forearm — where Steve wears the shield. Neither of their soulmarks are the simple dark slash of Bucky’s: they’re both complex, complicated, obviously drawn with care.

And when they work, for the little period they get to work, it’s amazing and it all makes sense. Steve’s the constellation Tony can use to align himself, and Tony’s the blaze of light that keeps Steve waking up day after day, to chase and care for. They make sense, when they’re allowed to, when they let each other in and allow themselves to have the weakness of vulnerability.

And in retrospect, well, the sun is just one of many stars, and Buck always said Steve’s heart burnt bright enough for two.

———

It hadn’t been easy. In no world, in no definition of the word, had it been anything like easy.

But it had been building for a while, and they both had known by the pain coming through their marks. Even during all the times they had said it was good, they were good, they didn’t know what it was, probably a challenge but they’d face it together: even through all of that, they’d burned a slow dark burn that Steve hadn’t ever read about. He thought it was just another danger to their lives, like Loki, like the Chitauri. He’d truly thought it that simple.

But then Ultron happened, and Steve had been forced to admit that he thought he knew Tony but hadn’t ever really plunged into those depths in his soulmate, figuring he had all the time in the world and could wait until Tony invited him to do so. And he’d learnt, later, through their soulmarks, that Tony had seen his reticence as regret, as a pulling back, and Steve had never read a book about how two people with literal lines into each other’s _souls_ could manage to miscommunicate so badly. 

And then he’d seen the walls Tony had built, in his own time, walls so cleverly designed his soulmark could still shine through them without letting a _whole hell of a lot of things_ out; and Steve maybe hadn’t been trying to build their bond, so excited to just experience it. It left them at an odd stalemate, orbiting around each other, blocked by the very thing that tied them together. 

And Bucky fucked it all up. Bucky, the one thing Steve felt loyalty to over decades, the one person Steve would consider choosing over anything, _end of the line,_ over even a soulmate who didn’t seem to be allowing the bond full reign over anything. Bucky wasn’t dead and their soulmark was burning like fire and Steve had made the choice he knew he wasn’t going to regret, because Bucky had been everything even when he had nothing: but also because he had faith that the soulmarks would fix what he’d done, no matter how far, no matter how much later.

Steve knows that, really, Bucky didn’t fuck it up. He did. He continues to fuck it up every minute he spends here in Wakanda, with his heart torn into two pieces.

———

The knock on his door is unexpected, for all that Steve’s only been sleeping in moments and afterthoughts, only in the moments where Tony lets himself fall asleep and drags Steve down into unconsciousness, that soft dark space where Tony’s mind simultaneously flies through equations in a language Steve doesn’t even speak _and_ slowly, unwittingly, opens itself up to the blaze of the sun on Steve’s chest. 

Steve drags himself out of that safe space slowly, reluctantly, but the feel of the knock tells him that it’s Buck, and Bucky’s agitated; and that’s enough to get Steve peeling himself out from under the sheets and stumbling to the door, half of his brain still stuck within the pleasantly comfortable noise of Tony’s mind spinning itself through a dozen problems and working through solutions, each lap through this landscape growing smaller and smaller as he eliminates complexities even in his sleep. Sometimes Steve’s still shocked to the level of pain at how much he loves Tony. 

“What?” Steve snaps at Bucky, once he pans his gaze over his best friend and determines that Bucky isn’t injured, or otherwise hurt, and that this isn’t a nightmare. In fact, Steve notices slowly, rising away from that deep level of sleep, Bucky looks energized; it’s like some kind of light has lit inside him, and Steve wonders suddenly whether Bucky has remembered everything - or at least, everything good - and whether this kind of joy is a marker he can place on the road to Bucky’s recovery, as one step potentially back to the soulmate he’s so fucking angry with but still loves with every single line of ink on his chest.

“Stevie,” Buck says, and this shit-eating grin spreads across his face and Steve isn’t really sure he’s _ever_ seen Bucky look so happy: there’s joy in it, but also a relaxation of some tension Steve hadn’t even really acknowledged until he sees Bucky’s face without it; there are wrinkles in his brow that have vanished, and a tension around his mouth that Steve finds himself looking for, and it’s very obviously absent.

“You’re gonna shit yourself,” Bucky says, and Steve’s mouth seems to be trying to grin back even though he doesn’t know what Buck is referring to, but he’s too tired to make it any more than a sort of neutral lip gesture. “Guess what happened?” Bucky asks him, and there’s a sudden chill down his back that tells Steve, this is for real, this is a thing that is happening: and he realizes only belatedly that whatever he’s feeling has woken Tony up, and his soulmate is muting his feelings and listening to this discussion.

Steve doesn’t even have it in his heart to deny Tony, even now, so he does nothing except ask Bucky, “What?” again, waiting with an uncommon anxiety in his heart for Bucky to spill whatever this story is.

“Shit, Stevie,” Bucky says, “fuckin’ Barton,” and Bucky shoves his wrist out under Steve’s nose, the dark splash of ink so familiar. “It’s Clint,” Bucky says, and he almost sounds manic except that there’s some joyful thing that’s settled within his voice; again, the kind of thing Steve hasn’t been aware of until its absence. “He’s my soulmate,” Bucky adds, and Steve watches his metal fingertips trail the shape on his wrist almost reverently, a tenderness Steve hasn’t seen in decades, since the last time he was nearly dying come winter and his Ma and Bucky alternated shifts in the night like the most desperate angels.

Buck’s looking at him, now, anticipation writ clear through all of his face, and for a second Steve isn’t even sure he has the capacity to respond; everything inside him has been stilled in response, and he ain’t really got anything left to offer, not in this narrow space where Tony’s been letting him sleep, where he drifted off in a dream where he isn’t alone in this bed, and as much as he trusts Clint there’s a weird surge of _jealousy_ inside him: as if Steve gave up the most here so it’s his right to be there for Bucky, as if he has any kind of place that supersedes a soulmark. It’s stupid and it dissolves almost before it begins, and to his surprise Steve belatedly realizes it’s _Tony,_ drawing away almost all of that angry jealousy so that Steve can at least form a reply with his lips.

“Shit,” Steve says, but he manages a smile, and the grin goes feral on Bucky’s face, a blush igniting high on Buck’s cheekbones. “Buck, I never would’ve — shit.” He smudges a hand over his face. “You fucking found him, Bucky. Here, after — after everything.”

“I did,” Bucky says, wonderingly, and Steve notes a distinct note of amusement from Tony — but it isn’t derisive, merely snarky, and Steve finds he misses that dry commentary more than he could know. “Look, Stevie, I’m gonna go put my hands down that man’s pants, but I needed you to — you needed to know.” Bucky’s smile is wistful, now, shaking his head. “Ain’t never thought it would happen even before Hydra got me,” Bucky says, the drawl so much more pronounced now, with his mouth at ease. His metal fingers trace the bold outline of the bird on his wrist again and Bucky sighs. “I owe ya, Stevie. More than you’ll ever know.”

“Shut up,” Steve manages, and he can feel Tony’s amusement all the way against his skin, burning over his chest as bad as his emotions are. “Fuck off, Buck. Go get him.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, and his grin is _feral_ in a way Steve recognizes from years of watching Buck do this dance with lovers. “I will.”

Steve shuts the door and leans back against it. For a small moment, all he can feel is his own shock and Tony’s drawling amusement up his spine. It shouldn’t be such a precious moment, but it is, and that realization is what ends it, Steve sinking to the floor with his head in his hands, and more alone than he ever thought he’d feel. 

———

So, honestly, Steve pretends he doesn’t know why he didn’t tell Tony - pretends it’s all tied up in soulmate nonsense, pretends that he doesn’t understand, or in moments of weakness pretends it’s any one of a heavy dozen reasons, all braided together, the sort of weave Thor tells him Asgardians do for mourning. It’s a fair mental image, really, because Steve’s been in mourning ever since he woke up in this century, and even with all that he’s gained the things he’s lost are so precious he feels like he’ll never stop the grieving process until he’s dead, cold and gone.

The thing is that it’s a collection of truths, each one haphazard and piecemeal; and in his terrible emotional state Steve had thought that a collection of shattered bits might be able to build a whole. The problem with that is that Steve isn’t a builder. The problem is that he collected all of these shards, assembled them into something he thought made sense, and then presented it to _Tony Fucking Stark_ , as if the world’s most brilliant engineer would look at what Steve had cobbled together and be able to buy its existence from the get-go.

Steve didn’t know; he hadn’t known. And then Natasha had dumped all the SHIELD files everywhere, and he’d gone looking, like an idiot. He knew it was Bucky so he’d chased that particular line until it sank - mainly because Steve had no skill or grace at the internet - and then he’d looked up all of his teammates, curious, nosy in a friendly way. He didn’t want to read anything they wouldn’t tell him, but he was also just — willing to skim, to see what the rest of the world was going to know about them. He had no illusions about Clint or Natasha letting anything into SHIELD’s records that wasn’t intentional, and likewise Tony, who hacked in on a regular basis like some people practiced yoga; and he doubted anything about Thor or Bruce was actually true. It was really just to see what potential enemies would know about them going forward, what kinds of things Steve would have to prepare.

And his brain - always so clever, Bucky had said, always so goddamned smart, putting pieces together before anybody else even saw ‘em - his brain had taken dates from one file and information from another and made inferences that meant Steve was presented with a pretty little picture, really, long before any of their investigations confirmed it.

And his brain, always so clever, always so analytical: his brain had rushed to bring in doubts, accusations, anything Steve could use to prop against the door and withstand the inevitable. His enhanced tactical brain against a genius engineer. Irresistible force meets immovable object.

In the end, he’d been scared, and that much was obvious. He’d found Bucky just as the floor had been pulled out from under him after Ultron, those experiences too close in his head to pretend at causation. And everything had crumbled. Part of him is afraid that some of it is petty _revenge_ against Tony: Tony didn’t tell him about Ultron, didn’t let Steve in on his part of that trauma, so it’s Tony’s turn to suffer now. That’s like the worst thing in the world. It’s a bully’s response. Steve hates that it might even be possible.

On some level Steve knows he would always have had to make a choice. Just like he knows he picked Bucky because he had some faith in the soul bond fixing itself. He picked Bucky because Buck hadn’t had anywhere else to go.

Now, Bucky does. Bucky has a soulmate. Bucky has a support system, and while Steve won’t claim he knows Clint down to his core, he couldn’t have picked a more stable, calming, uplifting influence for Bucky if he’d tried.

Now it’s Steve that has nowhere to go, and the thought worries him: like a splinter in a finger, like tension in a limb. 

He curls up in bed and for once, doesn’t stop his mind from seeking out his bond with Tony. As wrecked as it is, tattered and battle-scarred, it’s still there, and for just this once Steve drifts on it. Tony’s distracted by something, and Steve’s heart picks up detailed arguments, words wielded as weapons in a way he himself never learnt to do, the extenuating jargon of legality that’s almost everything he hates about this century. There’s barely anything he can understand, except for the urgency in Tony’s heart, the heat to the gestures Steve knows he’s making, and he drifts off to sleep with the comfort of Tony’s pulse in his ears, the first time in too many weeks he’s allowed himself the weakness.

———

Tony realizes mid-sentence that Steve’s fucking back.

It fucking _figures_ that that enormous fucking - troglodyte - that massive waste of space - that gigantic fucking _fucker_ ends up tossing himself off a cliff and landing with an enormous splash back into Tony’s fucking heart, right the fuck where Tony didn’t want him to be.

Especially now, when he’s making his own logistically precise arguments against the Accords, a series of thin slashes he expects no one to recognize for what they are until the entire house of cards comes crashing down around them. It’s hard, literally difficult, to keep the smirk off of his face. General Thaddeus Stupidhead Ross can suck his dick and kiss his balls, probably in that order, even though Tony’s sure when Ross’s realizes what Tony’s been pulling this entire time, he’ll order Tony’s balls burnt, not sucked. This metaphor has possibly gotten out of hand.

Mainly because his train of thought combined with the realization that Steve has landed, for better or worse, back into the hollow compartment Tony considers a heart has completely derailed his train of thought and he has to spend a solid 20 seconds where Ross’ face looks like it won and Tony has to mentally restrain himself from making another unflattering series of comparisons to sausages.

Not that Ross had caught the first, or even the second, set of meat jokes. Tony hopes FRIDAY is laughing, at least, because he hates being unappreciated even more than he hates being taken for granted and being read as if he’s WYSIWYG - _what you see is what you get._ Either way Ross is a dick and Tony’s going to be there, front row seats to the freak show, when this guy gets it.

Where by _gets it_ Tony sincerely hopes he means a knee to the balls, but will be happy to settle for a Congressional reading of Ross’ crimes in a public venue.

It’s harder than fuck to ignore Steve. It always has been; even so far back, before their soulmarks had even looked at each other, it had been hard for Tony to ignore Steve: that voice, the challenge in it, all the ways they were linked before even knowing that lines of ink on skin and destiny had done it for them. Tony’s normally disgruntled but in this case he’d like to send a polite, hand-signed bomb up towards destiny, because it can get in line to suck his dick, too.

“I’m not sure your argument holds weight, Stark,” Ross says, and his voice is creamy with a disgusting level of victory, as if keeping Tony from talking for thirty pathetic seconds will win this war. It’s gross, the same way as mayonnaise is _nasty thick,_ and Tony realizes he’s thinking about cole slaw as a distraction tactic and turns to face Ross, ready to verbally throw down.

Except that — except that he looks at Ross and sees an expectation: Tony sees the argument, and the shitty parts he thinks are a counterargument, all stuffed behind Ross’ eyes, and Tony knows in this case that silence is a weapon to be wielded as much as words are, so he stuffs all of his thoughts back behind his eyes where they belong and simply raises an eyebrow - a practiced gesture - and waits.

Some inner part of himself happily reports that it’s Steve’s tactical mind working with his, again, at last, and Tony wants to throw up - preferably on Ross’ shoes - but another part of him is clearly recognizing that Steve’s sleeping and this is mostly unintentional and Tony isn’t nearly altruistic enough to pass up an advantage like this when it’s totally asleep and unavailable to resist him. He lets his gaze grow a bit sharper, but remains silent, and watches as the expressions on Ross’ face move through incredulity to victory to doubt and then, surprisingly, to taunting.

Which is beautiful, because Tony’s used to being small and smarter than everyone and if there’s anything he knows how to manage, it’s idiot asshole bullies who underestimate him.

“I can understand you don’t want to keep pressing,” Ross offers, and it’s like he actually thinks he’s onto something here; good _god,_ but who trains the military these days? “I’m sure I’ve given you a lot to think about, and unfortunately I don’t have the time to stand here and counter every one of your delusional accusations.” The tone of voice he uses is exactly the kind someone would take when they _wanted_ to stand around for days and shoot theories into the ground, and Tony tries again not to laugh. For the four millionth time. But at this point he’s feeling solid, more than he has in weeks, and he feels his own face split open in a delighted grin, the kind he usually saves for Pepper when she deigns to save his ass, or Barton when he has a really good prank.

“Good seeing you,” Tony says, in a voice that means it’s anything but, dismissing everything Ross has just said. “And do hurry in getting that information on response time back to me, I do need good numbers to run good math.” He rubs a hand over his face like there’s any chance he’s not going to come up grinning, and then does. “And if you can forward me the Army’s report on the New York fight, I’d much appreciate it, I’m dying to read it.”

Ross blinks and the simple gesture fills Tony up with so much joy he might shoot off fireworks for an entire year. “Stark,” the man manages to get out. “I’m not sending you anything of the sort, and—”

“Section 5 Subheading B says that as part of the Accords response team, I’m entitled to data about anyone we might be working with in the field,” Tony replies, all casual drawl. “We don’t want to break the Accords before they even get a chance to exist, do we?”

Ross just stares at him like an absolute fucker. “No one’s breaking the Accords,” he says eventually, as if it’s gonna stay true just because he says it. 

“Then send me my data,” Tony says simply, and stands up to leave.

———

Fucking _Steve._

Tony knows it’s equally his fault, really, but he knows that and he’s been over it more times than he can even count, a continuously processing loop on the back burner of his brain every hour of every day, so he gets to take some time to blame Steve. He _deserves_ it.

Because Steve couldn’t see the forest for the trees. One tree, really. The Bucky Barnes tree. Bucky had shown up, and Steve’s entire being had flipped itself around. 

Tony knows because he _felt_ it, all through his left arm, a tingling like a burn as something irrevocably _changed._

Tony’s always been fascinated by soulmarks. Like, what the fuck? There’s science that can see the soulmarks working in someone’s brain, chemical responses and nerve actions they can trace, but in the end no one really knows how it _works_ , which is fascinating. He considers, for the four-hundredth time, writing a set of academic papers on what happens when your soulmate leaves you. Taking his own blood samples, monitoring his own brain, mathematically inscribing the pain he feels in his heart every time his left arm burns at him. It’s a field not many have looked into; he’s checked.

Stars and circles, concentric and overlaid. His life has always orbited around Steve Rogers, in some way.

———

Steve’s still there when Tony crawls into bed that night, and he lets himself float for a while, observing. It feels like he’s sleeping, but it doesn’t feel like he’s sleeping well, and Tony considers himself a generally decent person at least half of the time but if Steve’s going to open up this window Tony’s damn well going to take a look through, and Steve’ll know that. He wonders whether that’s why Steve opened it up, or if Steve’s as bone-weary tired of this bullshit as he is.

Spread across the top of Steve’s ocean of emotions (the worst term Tony’s ever heard, which is why he uses it, repeatedly, to make other people squirm) is an odd mixture Tony knows has to be related to Bucky and Barton: shock, surprise, some real happiness, but then relief, and guilt at it. Steve’s never, ever been hard to read, while Tony knows he’s fucked up all the way through his own soulmark, and it still feels like cheating to know so simply how Steve feels about this.

Barnes and Barton. Huh. It isn’t something Tony would have calculated on his own but now that it’s happened, he can see the sense. They’ll balance each other out well, since Barton’s sarcastic exterior hides the real stability he’s been able to find by weaving his Avenger and SHIELD lives together, and Barnes is gonna need somebody other than Steve to help him get through this. Plus, shit, Barton had Loki — it’s a better match than he’d originally thought.

Beneath _that’s_ a long layer of complicated shit. Tony doesn’t really know how Steve feels all this. Tony can manage two, maybe three emotions, tops before he starts to go round the bend and drown any remaining feelings in whiskey before they can join the party. This is some kind of Steve Rogers emotion smoothie, and it’s got everything mixed in there: regrets warring with stubbornness, pride up against shame, and a very real fear. Tony stops there, cause what does Captain America have to be afraid of? His best friend’s free and fixed, his team’s out of jail, and they’re living it up as refugees in the world’s coolest nation. As long as his soulmate remains too stupid in love with him to do anything about that, Steve’s got it made.

And Tony would never. He’s done a lot of stupid, hurtful shit to Steve, and he doesn’t even regret _all_ of it, but he would never.

He sighs, and puts his hand over his own soulmark, palm pressing into his forearm. Because underneath all of that, at the very center, is a sadness he can’t really bear, Steve’s lonely stupid dumb heart calling out to his, and he’s so fucking mad but he knows his is calling back.

\------

He doesn’t expect the phone to ring.

It’s a phone _Steve_ gave _him,_ with _one number_ in it to call. And that isn’t the number that’s calling him.

And no, he isn’t carrying it around with him day and night because he wants to phone Steve Rogers; it’s just practical, if something were to happen to him or to Pepper, for him to be able to reach Steve quickly. Or if something happened to the rest of — to the team. He’d want to be there immediately.

He picks it up, because he’s curious; who else did Steve give this number to? It’s a fucking flip phone; hell, Tony’s curious whether it’s even gonna work.

“What,” he says into it, not even a question.

“Look,” a voice growls, “I’m makin’ Stevie call you tomorrow cause I’m sick of his dumb moping ass, but I want you to actually talk to him, so I figured I’d call first so that you can. Y’know. Get all your yellin’ out.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says, his mouth running away faster than his brain can process. “Is this the one and only James Buchanan Barnes at my service? Robocop? Master of Murder? Destroyer of the Avengers?”

“Oh, I ain’t takin’ responsibility for that shit,” Barnes drawls, easy as can be. “I got dozen of crimes you can lay at my door, but you ‘n Stevie, you wrecked that yourselves.”

“I hate that you’re coherent,” Tony says. “What do I have to say in Russian to get you to go away? Osta-rajhny?” He butchers it, deliberately, just to piss Barnes off.

“Your accent is terrible,” Barnes tells him. “Plus, that means _be careful._ I’m gonna suppose you were goin’ for something a little dirtier than that.”

“Why bother,” Tony says cheerfully. “I can tell you to go fuck yourself in English just as easily.”

“Good,” Barnes says, with a big hint of sneer in it. “Get it all out on me so you can talk to Steve like a decent human being. I’ll wait.”

“You think I’m only mad at you?” Tony has to breathe through his nose at that. “Do you think -- look, Metallica, I’ll be happy to yell at you into next year, but if you think that means I don’t have anything to yell at Rogers about, then your fucking pieces and parts are the smartest thing about you.”

“My metal arm could take you,” Barnes hisses, and Tony laughs.

“Your arm’s the only thing I like about you,” he says.

The silence stretches a bit too long and Tony can’t take it, really; the agitation he’s feeling through his soulmark means that Steve’s _just_ become aware of this at whatever-the-fuck-o-clock it is in Wakanda, so apparently Barnes has done this of his own free will. “So did they take all the murder-words out of your head? Are you _sure_ they’re all gone?”

“Wow, you really are an asshole,” Barnes says conversationally. “Don’t play around, go right for the heart. No, I’m not sure, but Shuri is sure and Steve is sure and _Wakanda_ is sure and Clint says he doesn’t feel anything in my head, and I even let fuckin’ Maximoff check me out and at some point I have to start trustin’ people if I’m ever gonna move forward. How’s about you?”

“I don’t have lines of code in my brain that make me an assassin,” Tony retorts, before his brain gets back on track. “Wait, what?”

“Are you at _all_ tryin’ to move forward, Stark?” Barnes’ voice sounds exhausted, like he’s too tired to put up with Tony, which is _rich._ “Should I just not tell Stevie to call you tomorrow? You done?”

“You have absolutely no idea what I am,” Tony recites stiffly, because Barnes is getting to him and he can feel Steve’s nervous tension running up and down his forearm like an itch.

“Nah, I don’t really,” Barnes starts, and the casual drawl is getting on Tony’s nerves. “But I can tell you what I see, cause I know Stevie pretty damn well, and it ain’t hard to read between the lines.”

“Ah, relationship advice from a cyborg,” Tony says dreamily. “Can my day get any better?”

 _“He is your fucking soulmate,”_ Barnes spits, but it isn’t angry, it’s -- it’s _hurt_ , in a way Tony didn’t expect to hear out of Barnes, and it shuts him up for a second. “I never thought I’d get a real soulmate when I was a kid cause I liked men and it weren’t legal. Then I fuckin’ forgot I even knew what a soulmate was, thought this mark on my arm was more Hydra symbology, bought it when they told me it was their mark. Then, when I knew who I was and what it meant, I figured my soulmate was dead, lost back to an age I wish I’d fuckin’ died in.”

“Shall I send you a--” Tony begins, only to be cut off by Barnes, hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t you fuckin’ interrupt me now. A few days later I learned it was Barton, that I had a soulmate, that I had a soulmate who was a decent fuckin’ being and you know what, Stark?” Barnes is laughing now, the saddest dark laugh Tony’s ever heard, and he’s _created_ some really shitty ones himself. “I don’t even know if it’s gonna work. So much of my brain got electrocuted to _shit_ and back. I’m not even sure a soulbond is possible with a brain like fuckin’ swiss cheese.” Barnes takes a breath, and Tony unwillingly braces himself.

“But. You bet your ass I’m gonna hold onto him as long as I can,” Barnes says finally, and it’s soft and _vulnerable_ and all kinds of shit Tony never wanted to hear in the Winter Soldier’s voice. Fuck.

“So you yell whatever the fuck you want at me,” Barnes continues, which is good, cause Tony isn’t even sure what he’ll say. “Because Stevie’s a goddamned good person, and if you’re his soulmate, you have to be too, as much as I hate to say it, an’ I’m not okay bein’ the one that stands in the middle of that.”

“He picked you,” Tony’s mouth says with absolutely no permission from his brain. Fuck. “He knew what we had, and he picked you anyway. Is he always gonna pick you?”

“How the fuck do I answer that?” The frown is audible in Barnes’ voice. “I love the dumb bastard, he’s the brother I never had, and I’ll be there for him ‘til the end of the line, but.” There’s a pause as if Barnes is thinking about what to say. “That don’t mean he can’t be there for anybody else.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to deal with you,” Tony says wearily, because now he has a headache.

“We got a while to figure that out,” Barnes says. “At least fuckin’ talk to Stevie tomorrow, alright? Or if you ain’t gonna talk, at least listen.”

“I’m not promising you shit,” Tony says, “but thanks,” and he hangs the fuck up.

\------

That night Tony has three glasses of exceedingly expensive scotch and crawls into bed to listen to his heart bleed.

Steve’s still there, although he isn’t paying attention to Tony (and some part of him wants to say, _as usual,_ until he remembers that he hasn’t given Steve anything to pay attention _to_ ) and there’s a layer of agitation Tony isn’t used to feeling from Steve. He always seemed to have it together, at a level Tony couldn’t even comprehend; Steve Rogers is made of steel and honor, whereas Tony Stark is made of nerve endings and anxiety and leftover parts. Tony’s starting to wonder if all of these midreads are part of - of what happened to them. 

He waits until Steve’s alone, until he feels Steve taking some deep breaths, and then Tony has a couple long breaths himself before he exhales, and with it, runs his fingers along his own soulmark and opens himself up.

It’s a complicated procedure, like everything is: there are layers on layers he’s constructed mentally, all kinds of reminders he has in place, and in the end Tony just bulldozes it all cause he’s always liked explosions and if this is how he and Steve are gonna end he’d rather it be with a bang than a whimper. Fuck feelings, anyway.

So Tony Stark peels back the last of the layers over his stupid heart, and waits.

He isn’t sure whether to be surprised or not when the stupid flip phone rings.

“Steve,” he says, not having to look at the display.

“Tony,” Steve breathes, and something sharp and poignant hits Tony, starting in his left forearm until he curls in on it, and then it’s throbbing in his heart.

“Hey,” he says, completely inanely, because there are firework sparks running through all of the nerves in his skin that have been tattooed. Tony wonders whether Steve’s ever seen the mathematical models they’ve done of how the soulmark interacts with the layers of the dermis. That’s a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t. Tony hasn’t been there to show him.

“I can’t,” Steve says, and he sounds _completely_ overwhelmed: the way he was after a really long battle, when things had gone wrong and there’d been damages they couldn’t avoid; the way he was when Tony took him apart in bed, real slow, piece by piece, until Steve was choking feelings down as he breathed. He sounds exactly like all of this and whatever’s left of Tony’s heart comes apart, disintegrates, into the warm wash of the sun emblazoned on Steve’s chest.

“Me neither,” he admits, and holds the phone to his ear, curled up in one too many blankets because Steve always slept warm as the sun. “I can’t, Steve.”

There’s a noise that’s a sniff and Tony wonders whether Steve Rogers is actually crying over him or what? Steve gets upset, he gets angry, he lets himself feel his emotions (unlike Tony, who tries to run from them in a haphazard pattern that’s never the same twice), but Tony isn’t ever sure he’s heard actual tears from Steve.

“Can we,” Steve says, and _fuck,_ cause now he’s definitely crying and Tony feels what’s left of his stupid glowing heart split open into two. Which is mathematically impossible, but Steve Rogers has never been a fan of the laws of physics. “Not now,” Steve says, inanely, but Tony knows exactly what he means. “But can we?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and the warmth of the rush through his forearm is sparking, nearly hot, eager with something that just exists as genuine, as clean: existing over all of the rest of it, all the lies they’ve hid from each other, all the truths they’ve thrown in each other’s faces. “Tomorrow. We can.”

“Okay,” Steve says, openly crying now, and Tony will forever be known as the man that made Captain America cry, except that he’s also gonna be the man that fixes it. Somehow. 

“Yeah,” he repeats. “Good night, Steve.”

Tony doesn’t hang up, and he doesn’t close down his soulbond, either.

\------

Steve comes to him.

It isn’t that Tony doesn’t want to see Wakanda. It isn’t that Tony doesn’t trust Wakanda. Tony doesn’t trust himself to be able to manage Barton, and Wilson, and Wanda, _fucking Wanda oh my god_ , and still deal with his stupid fucking soulmate and a bleeding soulmark all at the same time. He’s a genius, but he knows his limits, and that’s about four emotions too many for him to be able to manage all at once. Whoever designed him kinda skipped on the RAM for feelings.

But Steve needs - demands - that the discussion takes place face to face, and Tony’s still so fucking angry at him that he almost refuses, except that he needs to see Steve’s face too. The soulbond will tell him a lot, but Tony doesn’t like relying on things he didn’t design.

So JARVIS lands the jet, and Steve exits, and they stand out on the open landing pad for a long time just staring. 

_The last time I saw you,_ Tony thinks, _you jammed your shield into my heart._

He can feel the response from Steve, that immediate rush to defend himself, defend his choices, defend all the wronged — but then Steve’s face goes slack, and the tingling in Tony’s forearm dies out. 

“Hi, Tony.” It’s soft, unsure, and more than a little bit sad. Tony hates it immediately.

“Steve.” He nods back. That’s one thing Steve’s earned from him, right or wrong, stupid or more stupid: his name. Not Rogers, not Cap. They’ll have this discussion as friends.

“Right,” Tony adds on, because the suspense is just killing him and if they’re going to explode, or implode, he’d rather do it indoors on a comfortable couch with a drink in his hand. “Come on in.”

They move, rather automatically, to the space that was the common room. Steve makes a low sound in his throat and moves to look around. Tony finds he fucking hates that too, so he goes and pours himself a big gulp of bourbon. He grabs two water bottles, too, offering one to Steve, because Steve’s stupid dumb body is always thirsty.

There’s a pause, again, as they situate themselves on the furniture. Tony wonders what the math is: what’s the exponential decay until forgiveness? Is there a point of diminishing returns? Even now, is the probability of solving any of this correlated to the seconds ticking by now? Can he solve this equation in a way that satisfies two constraints: his heart, Steve’s heart, circling round each other like the sun. As always.

“So,” Steve starts, and the look on his face chokes Tony up for an entire goddamned second, cause Steve’s looking at him like he’s water in the desert - oh, and doesn’t Tony know that one - or like he’s just now finding a god somewhere in Tony’s face, and it’s not really computing. Tony’s brain stalls out.

“How are they,” he manages to get out, little stumbling words. He’s lucky it’s a sentence. His arm feels like it’s electric, like the arc reactor isn’t in right. This ache deep in his chest isn’t helping the sensation. Tony’s tempted to pull it out and stick it back in again, see if the fucking thing will stop hurting. Fucking _Steve._

“They’re alright,” Steve replies instantly, like he’s balm on a burn. “They’re safe. Wanda’s recovering. Bucky’s — good,” and the last word comes out crooked, like the elephant in the room just sat on it.

“How mad,” Tony starts, and it isn’t the question he wants but it’s apparently the one he’s gonna get. He tries to think back, pretend it’s Captain McFucker Ross he’s dealing with, _anything_ to get some polish back on his words and some distance from the entire thing. 

To his credit, Steve doesn’t immediately try to soothe this burn. He takes his time, thinking about it, so Tony knows it’ll be an honest answer even if it hurts. When it hurts.

“It’s ...healing,” Steve starts. “Bucky isn’t mad at all. Thinks he deserved it. Wilson’s mad, but he doesn’t have to like you, just needs to work with you. Barton’s rage all kinda burned out when he and Buck did their thing. Wanda’s, well.” He swallows. “She and Scott honestly just kind of tagged along for the fight,” Steve says, quiet, like he’s admitting a mistake Tony wouldn’t have expected him to acknowledge. “They had their own feelings about the Accords, and they let their loyalty to the team come first. They’re honestly as mad at me as they are at you for letting things get to that point.”

It surprises Tony; after hearing the reports, he’s expected to have Wanda flying in to magic his brains out any day now: a _straightjacket_ and an _electric collar?_ Shit is fucked up.

“We were pretty stupid,” his mouth says, with no permission from his brain, and Steve laughs. 

That laugh - that feeling of mirth shooting through his soulmark - it’s that more than anything that breaks Tony down.

“We were pretty fuckin’ stupid,” he begins, “you for not trusting that I had a plan, and me for, well, not giving you any reason to trust me or any idea I had a plan. And with — and with your boy.” He can’t even bring himself to say Barnes’ name right now.

“Tony,” Steve says, gentle as a grenade.

“We were so stupid to each other that we let the Accords and _him_ all mash up into the same issue,” Tony continues; it’s escaping from his throat almost as fast as he can think it, now, pressure relief valve blown to shit. “They weren’t, and we should’ve been able to pull it apart and deal with it but it all became one giant clusterfuck and no, I won’t apologize, I’ve been analyzing this for weeks and that is legitimately the best word to describe what happened.” He pauses. “I ran the numbers. _Shitshow_ was a far distant second.”

Steve’s mouth quirks up, as if he’s amused with Tony.

“What I need is,” he continues, but the rage sort of fizzles out and his mouth says - again, without any conscious thought - “I don’t know.”

“What I need first,” Steve says, easy as an oiled joint, “are apologies. So, Tony, I’m sorry. Really. I freaked out about Bucky, and I was so afraid of what would happen to him, and I was really so afraid that you’d — you’d turn on him too, and I can fight you or the government but I can’t fight both.”

Tony sits, staring, as his brain stalls out again. Fuck. He sets down his drink and presses his palm over his soulmark. He lets Steve watch him do it. He almost closes his eyes, but he wants to watch Steve’s face too, and so he sits and stares until his nerves start to parse the chemical reaction. There’s nothing there but warmth, and guilt, and the heavy mercury weight of an actual apology.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Steve,” Tony manages to get out.

“I messed up,” Steve says. “I picked Bucky over you cause I thought you would understand, but you didn’t, and that’s on me.”

The words _hurt_ like a shield to the breastbone. Tony has to breathe through it, consciously. It’s bleeding like an open wound, and he clutches hard at his forearm, fingers digging into the marks there as if the stars and circles of Captain America’s shield could do shit about this. There are a hundred things he’s wanted to say - to yell, to scream - and he has no reply to this because his brain had convinced him the probability of hearing those words was lower then zero.

Steve just watches him through it, which is fair, because Steve’s always been about honesty.

The blood stops dripping long enough for Tony to breathe, and he has a million apologies to make, but what he says is: “Do you still want this?”

“Yes,” says Steve Rogers, sitting upright like a soldier. “Yes.”

———

“I’ve been dismantling the Accords from the inside,” Tony says into the phone.

“You’ve been—” Steve breathes, sharp, and Tony feels his soulmark pulse with exasperation and fondness. “You’ve been what?”

“See,” Tony begins, “I still think the world deserves a bit of oversight over our overpowered asses, and yes, that’s an argument we’ll have to have again some other time - except maybe we can shelve the argument and have a discussion instead, it’ll be great, I’ll bring cake - but the Accords aren’t the way to do it.”

“Um,” Steve says. 

But Tony’s been waiting for this, to explain this, since the entire thing started. He’s been ready. He’s just been waiting for Steve to be ready to _listen_ , to shove Barnes out of his head enough that he can _pay attention_ to Tony’s points.

“So the Accords are a mess, right, we all knew that from the get-go because General Ross is a stack of shit without the stacking, but the thing is? The only people allowed to modify them are _people who have signed._ People and nations, I guess, do countries count as people? Corporations do, sometimes. Hm. Maybe I should have SI sign the accords after all.”

“Um,” Steve repeats. Tony’s starting to enjoy this.

“The _other_ thing that the Avengers were unaware of because _they didn’t let me fucking finish,_ ” Tony continues, “is that General McAssFace is also a war criminal with a history of shady dealings, and has been breaking the Accords from day one right under our little noses.”

“Um?” At least it’s a question, now. Steve’s listening, at long last.

“So the _plan_ was, we get in on the Accords at time of signing, and then completely declare them incompetent, impotent, and invalid when we very publicly catch Ross back on his bullshit. Until then, better to be a signee than a fugitive, right? Can’t change anything if we’re all too busy running from the fucking superhero police state.”

Steve takes in another short breath. “Tony. Why didn’t you _explain_ this?”

“I _tried,”_ Tony says, and it’s almost like yelling except that it feels so _good_ to say it, to tell Steve, to finally be heard. “I mean, sure I should have tried _harder,_ but you know that point where everybody’s just talking over you and you decide to shut up because apparently no one wants to hear it?”

There’s silence. “Yeah, that’s where I was,” Tony finishes.

“ _Jesus,_ Tony.” There’s a lot riding in Steve’s voice. Tony breathes, and presses his hand to his mark. 

“The thing is,” he adds conversationally, “I know you get mad when I pretend I know better than everybody else, but the thing is that sometimes _I do.”_

He stops, finally, and lets Steve breathe through all of it. Tony feels electrical, in the best way, like he’s the suit and the suit is him and he’s finally just gone mechanical with everything, emotions all linked into the lines of code so that he can deal with it all, and he’s glowing with it so hard he assumed Steve has to be pressing on the sun that sits in the middle of his chest. 

“For a smart man, you can be a real idiot,” Steve says angrily, but then sighs, audible over the phone. “But ...you’ve always been _our_ idiot, when it comes down to it. You’ve always been on our side.”

“Our side?” Tony asks.

“The Avengers’ side,” Steve replies promptly, and then there’s a wave of affection over their bond that’s so thick Tony wants to drink it down like a smoothie. “My side, too, you know.”

———

It’s been four days since they’ve spoken and Tony knows, he knows it’s his turn, but his fast mechanical mouth has never been able to say these things the way they need to be said. Apologies become explanations, because there’s _always_ a reason Tony Stark does _anything_ (even all of the stupid bad and wrong shit) and if someone’s worth an apology, then they’re someone Tony cares about, and he feels like they should _understand_ him, too.

But Steve: Steve will take the explanations, later, and Tony will give them because he owes that to Steve — and also because he wants Steve to _get it,_ get him, better this time around. That’s fine for later, but it means the apologies need to come now, and that’s where Tony’s engine stutters and floods and dies.

He looks at the phone for a while, and then drinks the end of a bottle of whiskey and crawls into bed.

He can feel Steve like this, relaxed but not asleep — and Tony has no idea what the fuck time it is in Wakanda, mainly because he has absolutely no clue what time it is for him ( _JARVIS, what day is it?_ ). And so Tony slowly but surely dismantles his heart. It’s like following a blueprint: defusing the bombs on the perimeter, carefully removing the tiny screws, detaching the wires. He slips the poor thing out from underneath all of it, and he’s fairly sure the arc reactor has nothing to do with this hurt.

 _I’m sorry, Steve,_ Tony thinks. Feels. _I’m so sorry._

He can tell by the catch in his breath that Steve’s listening — so aware, so silent.

_I’m sorry I hid Ultron from you. I’m sorry we didn’t talk about it. I’m sorry we didn’t make time to have a real discussion. And I’m sorry, so sorry, that we fought. You should’ve just slammed your shield into my face and ended this all. I would have deserved it._

Steve’s still, so still.

 _And._ Tony knows he has to say it, even though all of it hurts so much. _I know it wasn’t Barnes that — that killed them. I read the files. I know. And I know he’s ...actually sorry about it. Who does that? Has no choice or control for seventy fucking years and still feels bad on the way out? Only somebody who’s friends with you, I guess._

There’s a hiccup, as if Steve’s laughing through a sob. 

_I’m sorry about what happened to him and I’m sorry I got so mad and I’m sorry I beat him up._

There, that’s it, that’s the last and lowest residual piece of Tony Stark that he has to offer: words he could never say out loud, words he wants to offer but knows he can’t. He has feelings, instead, and he hopes Steve can read them. 

———

Steve leans up against the frame of the hangar garage, trying not to fidget impatiently as the jet comes in.

It doesn’t fool Natasha, apparently. “Steve,” she says in that voice, low and charming, the one that means she’s amused. “He’s right there.”

“I know,” Steve says, and there’s a bit of a whine in it that’s kind of _embarrassing._

“Are you nervous?” She tilts her head, looking him down, and Steve knows she can see exactly how nervous he is and just wants him to say it out loud.

Instead Steve says, softly, “Nat. We both owe you an apology too.”

He’s pleased to see her eyes widen in surprise — just a bit; just the little bit she lets him see, now.

“You were the only one with your head on straight,” Steve says.

“I usually am,” Natasha agrees, a hint of a smile on her face.

“Plus,” Steve says, even more quietly, “all you wanted was for the team to stay together.”

She tips him a half-shrug, tossing her hair a little. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” she says, low and private.

The jet pulls in slowly, hovering down until it touches, softly, to the ground. The lights flicker as the post-landing check runs automatically.

“I am glad to have him finally here,” says T’Challa, over Steve’s shoulder. “It is good, for you to be reunited.”

“I am too,” Natasha adds, “but never, ever tell him.”

Steve just steps forward, towards the door. His soulmark is blazing like an arc reactor, all the heat of the sun coalescing in his heart.

The door opens. Tony’s smile is crooked and he has a hand on his forearm and Steve’s momentarily swamped by all of these feelings: relief, trepidation, a bit of fear, but underneath it something dark and warm and comforting, something that could be love if he looked a little closer.

“Hey,” Tony says.

Steve reaches out and Tony gratefully collapses into his arms. Steve pulls him tighter, and Tony slips his forearm up to press against Steve’s chest. Even through the material of his shirt, Steve can feel it echoing again, and again, and again. 

_We’ll be alright._

**Author's Note:**

> I was SO EXCITED to get this comm after _the lines to speak your mind_ because i really enjoyed that universe and was kind of dying to write the Stony version, but felt like I had to focus on other comms, you know? THEN RainDriesOut came through and asked for exactly what I wanted to write. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Additional note: the titles of both fics, and of the series, are from Fiona Apple's _I Know_ , which is an incredibly soulmate-y song and is also beautiful.


End file.
